


alibi

by nise_kazura



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Honeymoon, If you like Bedelia you probably won't like this fic sorry, Jealousy, Other, Self-Insert, Serial Killer!Reader, Weddings, have fun all yall hannibal simps, implied infidelity (not real), my first self-insert fic, reader uses they/them pronouns, uhhh what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28133709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nise_kazura/pseuds/nise_kazura
Summary: In the early days of your “courtship” deal with Hannibal, you’d thought you could take him down, easy. It wasn’t until a couple of months in that you cottoned on to the fact that all those little slips of attention and moments of dropped guard were carefully feigned, designed to lure you into a sense of security. You decided then that you had to kill him before he killed you, and prepared for it, made plans. But then you...didn’t. Why thefuckdidn’t you?(You know why.)-In which you and Hannibal get married under the guise of being each other's alibis. Because it's not like you'reactuallyin love with him. Right?
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 90





	alibi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pennedbymazoji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennedbymazoji/gifts).



> my first self-insert fic! written by request for [pennedbymazoji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennedbymazoji) :)
> 
> P.S. I don't actually hate Bedelia or anything, she just made the most convenient person to put in the role of love rival (I couldn't let it be Will because there's no way I can write a fic with both Hannibal and Will in it and have Hannibal choose someone else over Will lol). I swear I actually like Bedelia quite a lot, lmao.

It happens, as it always does, over a dead body.

Hannibal gives it a deep sniff, and you scoff.

“I didn’t use poison, Hannibal,” you say. You’d gotten too much shit from him before about being “wasteful” in the past to do that anymore.

“No, you didn’t,” he agrees. “You used your bare hands.”

“You have a problem with that?”

Hannibal straightens, and reaches over for the bone saw.

“Not at all. The meat is satisfactory. We should get married.”

You roll your eyes. Of course it is. You know what Hannibal likes by n— 

Wait, what?

“Wait, what?”

Hannibal lines the bone saw up, flipping down the visor he uses to protect his face from the spray.

“We should get married,” he repeats. “We’ve been dating for long enough. It’s the natural conclusion, wouldn’t you say?”

You open your mouth to say something like,  _ This is a bit too much for an alibi, isn’t it?  _ or maybe  _ You can’t be serious. _ But at that moment, Hannibal starts up the bone-saw, the sound ripping through the air and cutting you off. 

Bastard.

From there, it was just a matter of principle. If Hannibal is willing to go that far for your little quid pro quo “yes officer, I can indeed confirm that on the night of the 20th Hannibal Lecter was deep,  _ deep _ inside me” deal, you sure as hell weren’t going to back down, either.

And now you’re getting married to the most pretentious asshole to have ever said “I once knew a man who raised truffle-hunting pigs.” Joy.

“Why pigs, though?” Mrs. Komeda asks. 

“I wonder,” Hannibal says. “I hear the hunting has gone to the dogs, now.”

You’re busy wondering if there’s a pun in there about Hannibal’s favored “pork” while simultaneously attempting to inhale your weight in alcohol so as to not question your life choices when Bedelia, of all people, walks up to the table.

“Hannibal,” she says, and nods to you. You try not to look too disgruntled at her presence. You never liked Bedelia. She knows too much, and she’s too smart to be an easy kill. But Hannibal likes to keep her around for whatever twisted reason, which means she’s off-limits. And she doesn’t fit your target demographic, either. Shame.

“I haven’t gotten the chance to congratulate you,” she continues. “You make a wonderful couple.”

Is that a hint of sarcasm you’ve detected there? Perhaps not, but something about her tone still rubs you the wrong way.

Hannibal smiles broadly. “Bedelia,” he says warmly. “Thank you for coming.”

Bedelia hums and gives a cool twitch of her lips in response. Then she sips her wine carefully, letting the liquid slowly slip down her throat. She raises an eyebrow and tips the glass towards him. “Your taste is as... discerning as ever.”

Hannibal wraps an arm around your shoulders, rubbing your arm affectionately. 

“You know I enjoy my peculiarities,” Hannibal says.

“You make bold choices for someone with a delicate palate.” Bedelia’s eyes don’t budge from Hannibal’s. Hannibal’s hand slides down to your waist and then your hip, and you suddenly get the feeling that they’re not discussing wine anymore.

“Not intentionally, I assure you. I simply go with what appeals to me the most.”

“It’s not like you to be humble, Hannibal. You chose this because it paired well with the meat.”

You bristle. What is that supposed to mean?

“I also chose it because I enjoy it,” Hannibal counters. “Though, yes, the meat is part of the enjoyment. There is nothing quite like a draught to slake your thirst and the taste of flesh on your tongue to sate your other hungers.”

You resist the urge to kick him. And he calls  _ you _ indecent. “Other hungers,” he says. Was that supposed to be subtle?

Bedelia raises an eyebrow. “Well I applaud you for your audacity.”

_ You _ certainly don’t. Hannibal and his “audacity” can go die in a ditch. Preferably one of your choice, and by your hand. You glance around quickly, but no one else seems to have caught onto the subtext of their conversation.

“Hannibal works hard to put dinner on the table,” you say. “It only makes sense, then, that he’d be particular about the meat.”

“Do you not work?” Bedelia asks.

“I work,” you say, but you don’t elaborate. “I put just as much onto the table as Hannibal does.”

Oh, God. Now  _ you’re _ making puns. Hannibal is contagious. You have to get out of here. You don’t have to look to know that Hannibal’s got that insufferable smirk on again. 

“They are quite capable,” Hannibal informs Bedelia, and you think you’ll puke if you have to listen to Hannibal pretend to be in love with you while also cracking jokes at your expense to the benefit of his high-brow, stuffy friends. So you head back towards the bar.

The rest of the wedding is both extravagant and lackluster.

Though Hannibal had pulled out all stops, as expected, it’s still...a normal wedding. An obnoxiously rich one, but for all intents and purposes, the only thing being wed are two masks. Before long, it’s time for the honeymoon.

“Why a cruise?” you ask Hannibal on the way to check-in. 

“Do you not like the ocean?” Hannibal asks. You start. You don’t remember telling him that. How did he know?

“I do,” you say. “I didn’t think you’d choose something for  _ me _ , though.”

“The ship will take us from Barcelona to Naples, Rome, Florence...places of culture. It suits my tastes just fine,” he answers. 

But the real reason why Hannibal chose this becomes abundantly clear soon enough. Once you’ve already made it past the flight and the boarding and onto the blasted ship, when you no longer have the option of backing out, that is.

You’re busy trying to shoulder your bag and get the keycard to your rooms to work when a hauntingly familiar voice says, “Honestly, Hannibal. Shouldn’t you be helping your spouse?”

“They prefer to do some things by themself,” Hannibal answers smoothly.

What.

The  _ hell. _

Is  _ Bedelia _ doing here? 

And in the room next to yours and Hannibal’s, no less?

The door gives a beep, and the sound of the door locks sliding out of place is your signal. You storm in without so much as a glance of acknowledgement to your new neighbor. The second the door closes behind Hannibal and the rest of his luggage, you’re lunging at him and knocking him against the door.

“What are you playing at, Hannibal? Hmm?” you hiss. “Is this a fucking joke to you?”

“Not at all. The tickets were a good deal, and the topic came up in conversation. We booked the rooms together.”

The image of Hannibal and Bedelia bent over a computer screen together and discussing the details of the luxury cruise liner you’re on, probably with glasses of wine in each of their hands, has you seething.

“How  _ sweet. _ Did you braid each other’s hair and paint your nails, too? Sounds fun. Tell me: why wasn’t  _ I _ invited?”

The knife you managed to sneak on board (or, well, one of them anyway) is digging into the skin underneath his chin. Hannibal could probably disarm you relatively easily, but you’d be able to do some damage before he did.

“You expressed a disinterest in the details.”

“So you decided you might as well take the opportunity to piss me off?”

“I wasn’t aware you had such strong feelings about this,” Hannibal says, a curious glint in his eye.

You shove him one more time and step back, tucking your knife away.

“I don’t.”

Hannibal can do whatever the fuck he wants. This is all just for show, anyway. If he wants to get all buddy-buddy with Bedelia, why the hell should it matter to you?

It’s not like any of this is  _ real. _

* * *

Hannibal never spares expenses, so the cruise he (and Bedelia, apparently) booked offered overnight stays in port. You had enough time for maybe two or three excursions during that time.

“We should visit Parque Güell,” Hannibal says.

“A wonderful idea,” Bedelia chips in. You refuse to make a remark about Hannibal bringing her along on what is purportedly your honeymoon, because you don’t care.

“I want to go to the beach,” you grumble. Neither of them pay you any mind. Good to know that your opinion counts for something around here.

Hannibal books the excursion, and all three of you climb into the tour bus. You pointedly do not sit next to Hannibal. Throughout the ride up, Hannibal and Bedelia murmur to each other quietly, looking pristine and perfect and posh, the way they always do.

But, you have to admit, Parque Güell is a good choice. It’s beautiful, intricate mosaics and organic shapes meld together to create a colorful yet calming experience. When you reach the top, to where a view of the city and the bay opens up before you, Hannibal appears by your elbow.

“What happened to your partner-in-crime?”

Hannibal sighs. “Bedelia can manage on her own.”

“And I can’t?”

“I simply wished to enjoy the view together with you.”

You cross your arms and stare out over the bay.

“This park was designed by Antoni Gaudí. A man singularly devoted to his work and his faith.”

“Wasn’t he queer?” When Hannibal turns to study you, eyebrows raised, you roll your eyes. “I can use Wikipedia too, you know.”

“Gaudí was single his entire life, and was purportedly only ever attracted to one woman.”

“And it didn’t work out. Sounds pretty queer to me.”

“Well, the vocabulary around queer identity didn’t exist at that time. I would caution against trying to categorize human experience in that way, especially in a time and place where the social structures differ from our own. But I suppose by modern standards that wouldn’t be outside the realm of likelihood.”

You shrug. “He wasn’t ordinary. No one normal could have created something like this.”

“The young Gaudí took great care of his appearance and loved high culture. A man of great taste, I would imagine.”

You snort. “Sounds like you. Was he just as unbearable?”

“He wasn’t known to be friendly except to close acquaintances.”

“Ah, so the opposite of you then.”

“How so?”

“You act like a social butterfly in front of everyone else but you’re an asshole once someone gets to know you.”

He doesn’t even deny it.

“In the 1910’s, Gaudí experienced much loss. The older Gaudí dedicated himself to his religion, giving up his younger lifestyle to the point where he was often mistaken for a beggar.”

“Someone marked by death.”

Hannibal hums doubtfully. “Was that the cause of his change?”

“Why else?”

“He turned to his faith, in the end. He found absolution; maybe borne from loss, or maybe he simply found something to dedicate his life to. The rest fell away in time, like petals from the flowering fruit.”

You don’t think that will happen to Hannibal. He has already been borne from loss, and he emerged as he is. Though, perhaps, Hannibal’s devotion would peel back his mask. But what is revealed underneath wouldn’t be a beggar, but a beast.

* * *

The restaurant we go to for dinner is simultaneously minimalist and lush. White tablecloths, white, cushioned chairs. Pale ceilings with something gold splashed on it, cream and deep beige carpet. Hannibal had somehow secured us—all  _ three _ of us—seats at the chef’s table, where we can watch as the food is prepared for us. After a few quiet words with Hannibal, the waiter hands us our menu and disappears.

The menu has dishes all named after fairy tales. Because of course. You bet Hannibal will choose “The Three Little Pigs” because he loves his pork jokes. You’re tempted to choose “Shrek” but in the end, you decide on “The Little Prince” because the short menu doesn’t leave any details as to what the dish consists of, and you like a little mystery in your life. 

After a few minutes, a woman comes out in crisp white clothing, holding a chef’s hat in her hands, her hair neatly tied back. She and Hannibal greet each other warmly, and you wonder when Hannibal had the time to learn Castilian Spanish. You can tell he has a bit of an accent and he speaks a bit slowly, but he delivers his words with smooth confidence. The chef looks pleased with what he has to say.

“Enjoy your dinner Señor Lecter,” she says.

“I never intended to do otherwise,” Hannibal says with a smile.

“Good. And your lovely wife, too,” the chef says, and gives Bedelia a smile and a nod. It’s not until she turns and walks away that you feel a wash of blinding fury. You would have said something to correct her, if you hadn’t expected Hannibal or Bedelia herself to say something. But neither did. You refuse to look to the side and see them poring over the menu together, thick as thieves. Your rage has nowhere to go. You’re in public, and if you throw a fit you’ll look like a child. So you sit there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, images flashing through your head of eviscerating Bedelia, tearing her into ribbons and shreds, strangling Hannibal, stabbing the chef and the waiter and the receptionist that checked you into the ship and— 

“The Three Little Pigs,” Hannibal tells the waiter.

“Little Red Riding Hood,” Bedelia says.

You unclench your jaw, and give them your order sullenly.

Seething in anger as you are, it’s impossible to enjoy the show. Bedelia and Hannibal enjoy it enough to make up for your lack of enthusiasm, though, politely watching as the chefs prepare your orders.

The food tastes delicious, of course, so you cross the chef off your kill list. Hannibal, though… He hasn’t been let off the hook. Not by a long shot.

You’ve already threatened him with a knife too many times to count, and you loathe being predictable, so you give him the silent treatment. You don’t speak a word to him for the rest of the night.

He doesn’t appear to notice.

By now your anger has steeped so long it has grown cold. Ice cold. It feels like your mind is clearer than it has been in a long, long time. Why did you agree to all of this, anyway? Fuck Hannibal and his alibis. You don’t want to cover for him anymore, and you don’t need him to cover for you.

You don’t care about any of this. You don’t care about anything that doesn’t have to do with survival and your vendetta against the world. Hannibal is secondary, an accessory. He doesn’t matter.

* * *

The hotel must be beautiful and luxurious because Hannibal would  _ never _ subject Bedelia to anything less, but you don’t notice. You get your keycard and mutter something about staying out a bit longer before storming out.

You’re on the hunt.

You know it’s reckless, you haven’t prepared, you hardly ever choose targets without deliberation beforehand but you don’t  _ care. _

You’d dressed in dark clothing out of habit. As you stalk through the streets, affecting the stride of someone unassuming and familiar, you watch. In your head you note dark alleys, turns, making a mental map of where you are and where the crowds peter out.

You follow the nightlife to a small, cozy spot where you can hear the bass shaking through neon illumination and select a shadowy spot to wait. 

Eventually, you see him. Tall, with stark features. A genteel nose and intense, dark eyes. He’s suave, gently helping the girl with an arm under her shoulders as she stumbles, smiling apologetically at those they pass. But if you look closely and know the signs, her confusion and fogginess and the way she glances back at the club as though she were expecting someone to follow tell the story. Drugged.

You’ve found your target.

You tail them until they turn behind a building. The girl’s soft, slurred protests are interrupted by harsh, low commands. He has his hands under her dress when you come up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. 

Your hood is up, face in shadow. He turns with a snarl and you take the chance to slam the girl’s head against the wall, knocking her out. Can’t have a witness, after all. Plus, she’ll need an alibi.

(Fucking alibis.)

He’s momentarily confused, and you take the chance to sucker punch him in the face. Then the surprise morphs into anger and he swings back. You duck and dodge, weaving back and forth and luring him further into the shadows. The knife hidden in your sleeve is warm against your skin, live. 

You’re quick. One opening is all you need. Then you’re up close, behind his guard, and knock him backwards, landing with an elbow over his throat and a knee in his gut. He looks afraid, the whites of his eyes flickering. You’re not heavy compared to him, but you don’t need too much force. Your blades are always sharp, and cut true. The blood is drawn forth, like oil in the darkness. He stops struggling soon enough. Your sleeve is soaked through, but it won’t be visible against the dark fabric, especially at night. 

You stand and take a deep breath, closing your eyes. It’s a foreign city, a foreign place, but this is what you know. You’re centered, in control. The high is brief, but powerful— it draws you, but does not consume you. You don’t bother looking back down at the corpse—it is no longer of any consequence, and you’ll be out of the city by tomorrow.

You feel better. You feel like yourself.

And that’s what you’re thinking when you go back to the hotel and find Bedelia waiting for you by the door.

* * *

She looks infuriatingly elegant in a robe and nightgown, leaning against the door to her suite. She scans you up and down, then turns and unlocks the door in a silent invitation to follow. 

You’re relatively certain she’s noticed the blood on your sleeve, so you don’t really have a choice but to follow. 

She motions towards the wine bottle sitting in ice (starting to melt now) by the desk. 

“No thanks.”

She pours a glass for herself silently, on just this side of too much. Then she turns to face you and takes a careful sip, watching you with a singularly calm and considering focus.

Eventually, the silence is too much for you.

“Did you need something?”

“You were out quite late. I’m sure Hannibal was worried.”

You scoff. “Was he?”

She tilts her head. “You don’t think so?”

“Wouldn’t you know better than I?”

“You’re his spouse.”

“And you’re his lover.”

She raises a questioning brow, cool and appraising. She doesn’t rise to the bait.

“There are many things between Hannibal and me. But I don’t think any of those things could constitute as...love.”

“But you still let him fuck you.”

Bedelia blinks soporifically. Her disdain drips from her features. “No one ‘lets’ Hannibal do anything. He...coerces. Does he not?”

“If you’re trying to shift blame, there’s no point. It takes two, as they say.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Am I? Or are you?”

Bedelia fixes you with a look. “Have you ever been...coerced, by Hannibal?”

“Just get to the fucking point.”

“I have,” she says. “But not to the point where I’ve let him between my legs, as you assume. Do you assume that because that’s what he’s done to you?”

“You think Hannibal brainwashed me into fucking him? Do you hear yourself?”

“I think you underestimate Hannibal’s influence. And it’s put you in a dangerous position.”

You can’t help it. You laugh. “And what would  _ you _ know about dangerous?”

“Enough. Having seen through the gaps in his human veil, I have seen enough.”

You suddenly wish you’d accepted that drink. “Thanks for the advice. Didn’t ask for it.”

You turn to leave, when she says your name, stopping you in your tracks. 

“He isn’t right for you,” she says. “And you can’t be what it takes to be right for him.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Bedelia’s blood is warm. She stares at you in muted shock, hand enveloping yours, mouth slightly ajar. Your knife is singing, buried deep in her guts. Hand in hand, you jerk the blade upwards, listening to the blood drip onto the carpet. You’re not sure how you got from there to here, but here you are. You feel simultaneously hot and cold. You’ve never been this enraged in your life.

“What do you know?” Your voice is soft. Deadly. “What do you know? About me? About him?”

Her hand slips from yours, fingers coated in red. She stumbles back until she hits the wall, and slides down, holding her middle.

You don’t know where this rage comes from. You don’t know why you care so much. Hannibal is nothing to you. He has never been, and never will be. Right?

“Nothing. You know  _ nothing.” _

You kneel in front of her, and sock her in the face. Her head whips to the side and then returns to stare at you again. So you punch her again. And again. You’re breathing hard, just watching her beautiful face distort under your hands. 

Hannibal would hate this, if he saw, you think. Too inelegant.

Not that you care about what he thinks. You don’t.

Except you’re shaking in a way that you almost never do. This doesn’t feel like the kill from earlier that night. This feels like grease flooding your lungs. Who is Hannibal, to do this to you? Who are you, to let anyone do this to you?

_ “And you can’t be what it takes to be right for him.” _

Your chest burns and you want to scream, rip something to pieces. But Bedelia’s already done, face swollen near unrecognizable, breaths rattling weakly through her mouth. There’s nothing left to destroy. Nothing left to kill.

You’ve never felt this way before. You’d promised yourself you’d never let someone do this to you because it would make you weak. You’d said you’d never let yourself— 

...Oh.

Your mind goes white-blank with realization. 

No. No, no, no, no. What the fuck?  _ What the fuck?! _

This can’t be happening.

Right on cue, the door to the hotel room clicks open. You whirl around, eyes wide and frantic, to see Hannibal walking calmly towards you. He’s wearing his stupid fucking plastic onesie and he looks so dumb like that with his stupid face and stupid hair and he doesn’t even wear a  _ hairnet _ what’s the  _ point—  _

He hums, appraising your work. “Inelegant,” he remarks.

You’ve dropped your knife so you fly at him with your fists.

You have to kill him. There’s no other way. You have to exorcise this weakness. You can never,  _ ever _ let someone have this kind of power over you and get away with it.

Hannibal dodges once or twice, but never puts his hands up. Your already bloody knuckles sting as they smack his cheekbone. He’s watching you, closely, observing the way you swing wide, the messiness of your emotions. You leave too many openings, and he doesn’t take any of them.

With a muffled scream you pounce on him, forcing him to the ground and end braced over him with your forearm digging into his neck. “Fight _ back,” _ you hiss, tears in your eyes.

In the early days of your “courtship” deal with Hannibal, you’d thought you could take him down, easy. It wasn’t until a couple of months in that you cottoned on to the fact that all those little slips of attention and moments of dropped guard were carefully feigned, designed to lure you into a sense of security. You decided then that you had to kill him before he killed you, and prepared for it, made plans. But then you...didn’t. Why the  _ fuck _ didn’t you?

(You know why.)

Hannibal’s eyes glimmer with emotion. He reaches up to thread his fingers carefully through your hair. You jerk away.

“Fight. Back.”

He whispers your name. Your tears drip onto his face. 

“You’re so stupid,” you say, choked. “So fucking stupid. I’m gonna kill you.”

“It would be an honor,” he says, because of course he would. Of course.

How could you do anything other than kiss him?

You’re still choking him, but he gives as good as he gets. When you feel him faltering and struggling minutely, you release him and drop down to the side, lying next to him.

Defeated.

He knows. He’s probably fucking known all this time. You’re so fucked.

“If I’d known this would be the outcome of marriage, I would have proposed earlier,” he says after catching his breath.

You snort derisively. “Being with me is that bad huh?”

There’s a moment of silence as you stare at the ceiling, trying your best to come to terms with the fact that you’re in love with someone who will never, ever love you back.

“You’re the most radiant thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of setting my eyes upon. Watching you in your element, in your incandescent rage, is transcendence itself.”

You freeze. When you look to the side to meet Hannibal’s eyes, he’s the most serious you’ve ever seen him.

Hannibal loves games. He loves whimsy, he loves to play.

But you know him. You  _ know _ him. Your heart leaps in your chest, because you can tell.

He means it. 

Your heart pounds, then soars. You don’t know what to say, so you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“...Jesus, Hannibal. Just say you’re hard next time.”

Hannibal sighs. “I’m hard.”

You stare at him and begin to laugh. He observes you with mild irritation cast over his features, but you don’t care. He had plenty of chances to kill you, and he didn’t. That has to mean something, for Hannibal. And, well, if he decides to do it later, then you’ll deal with it when that comes. You know his tricks. You know his modus operandi. You can handle him. Bedelia was wrong, you  _ can _ be right for him. You are. And most of all, he’s right for you.

When you’ve finally calmed down, you sigh. “So I suppose this means we’re going to have to run.”

There’s too much evidence of Bedelia’s connection with you and Hannibal, and the kill wasn’t clean enough for you to get away with it. You’re annoyed that you let yourself be so sloppy, but Hannibal seems pleased as punch.

“A wedding in Italy might be nice.”

“A wedding? We just had one.”

“I like marrying you. I don’t see any point in denying myself the simple joys of life, so why not another?”

Why is he like this? He’s so ridiculous. You can’t believe you’re going to have to deal with this for the rest of your life.

“I wouldn’t really call a $200,000 wedding one of the ‘simple joys of life.’”

“I’d marry you in every continent, every country, every province. Even with different names and living different lives, my love for you would remain the same,” Hannibal says in that casual way of his. For some reason, this ticks you off even more.

“You seem awfully certain that I’ll say yes again.”

“I’d wait for you in every lifetime.”

You roll your eyes.

“You know, some might call that creepy.”

He says your name again, and you meet his eyes, finally. His hand drifts to your chin, thumb stroking your cheek and then trailing down to your throat. You swallow. “You can’t run from me. In no uncertain terms, I am never letting you go.”

You’re sure, in that moment, that if you’d had any intention to escape or turn Hannibal down, he’d probably do something crazy like kidnap you and keep you in his basement. He looks like a man ready to swallow you whole; in other words, not like a man at all. Something otherworldly, something beyond. He’s weird like that.

No one in their right minds would say yes to that. But then again, when have you ever been in your right mind?

You kiss him, and he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> The restaurant is a real place! The last time I checked the menu really did have dishes named after fairytales, which I thought was very Hannibal-esque. It's called [Moments](https://www.mandarinoriental.com/barcelona/passeig-de-gracia/fine-dining/restaurants/catalan-cuisine/moments/menu) and is in a hotel called Mandarin Oriental.


End file.
